


Fidelity

by LittleObsessions



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types
Genre: Breathplay, Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Married Sex, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Verbal Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 03:46:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18422178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleObsessions/pseuds/LittleObsessions
Summary: "And she wants him to talk like this, to tell her how it drives him wild with jealousy and abandon, to make her wanton with every lascivious accusation he pours down on her. She wants him to use every crude word he’s ever collected, spat, coloured with that perfectly lilting accent."





	Fidelity

**Author's Note:**

> This is not beta'd, because I don't have a beta in this fandom. I am open to anyone who would like to undertake this nigh on thankless task. 
> 
> I am also going to apologise right now for this. But I wanted to write a fic where language *cough, cough* played a central role, and this would not leave me alone. So here it is, laced with my prodigious apologies.

* * *

She is intimately acquainted with the limits she can push him to, but her curiosity is insatiable when it comes to seeing if they’ve at all expanded. After all, the old maxim remains true; variety is the spice of life.

And to add insult to injurious intentions, she’s felt restless these last few weeks, voracious hunger that she knows can only be satisfied with a departure from the status quo. Though, she muses, as she leans heavily into her husband’s associate, (a hedge fund manager on Wall Street) and enjoys the feeling of her husband’s eyes raking over her spine, their status quo is hardly vanilla.

Nonetheless it is sometimes fun - nae, necessary -  to push the boundaries.

Comfort zones are where marriages go to die. 

She feels a hand on her elbow, hard and tugging.

“Time to retire,” her husband murmurs, mouth a breath away from her ear, and his voice a hitch away from irritation, and she knows her shameless and entirely calculated flirting has worked.

But her husband much prefers the final nail in the coffin to being partially buried, and she’s never been one to shirk expectations.  So, ignoring his imperative, she draws her palm down the other man’s face, and he shudders under her touch and his eyes flutter closed.

“We’ll bid you goodnight,” her husband literally steps between them, his hand moving from her elbow to her hip, where she feels the tip of every one of his strong fingers burying in, bruising. 

For a moment she visualises what those fingers will soon be doing; confident in the knowledge that they will be, no doubt crossing her mind that everything she has laid out this evening will come to debauched fruition in their bed, if not the back of the car or, if her stars are at all aligned, the lobby of this hotel.

She removes her fingers from the young investor’s face, and finally turn to look at her husband. His eyes are black, shining with something she hungers for; his envy, his adoration.

His absolute fury.

“Morticia,” he insists, “we have children to get home to, and some boring domestic rituals I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” she agrees, eye brow arched, praying with every ounce of her immoral being that domestic rituals are the furthest thing from his mind.

The way he glowers at her convinces her she’s very much correct.

Taking her hand in his he all but marches her past their hosts, with a polite but brief farewell. He clicks his fingers furiously at the valet, who signals for their car, and he swiftly ushers her in.

“Gomez-“

“Don’t,” he growls, all part of the play, but thrilling nonetheless as their driver (Lurch is at home with the children) presses the partition button after greeting them.

“I can’t imagine-“

The suddenness of his action kills her words and renders her breathless, and the fact that the act is one of wrapping his fingers around her slender neck and pressing judiciously on her windpipe only serves to make her squirm in pleasure as the sudden lack of oxygen makes her mind swim.

“You outdid yourself tonight,” he whispers menacingly. “And I am not prepared to discuss it until we are alone, and in private, because I can’t be responsible for my actions.”

“That sounds promising,” she almost gasps, as he lets her go suddenly and she falls back against the seat, the skin of her neck burning. 

It makes her feel alive. The rushing reintroduction of oxygen, the chaos of the city as it flies past the windows, the anticipation of what she knows is to come, and the voluptuous envy which radiates from the man beside her.

To say she is wildly aroused would be an understatement, but she is also exceptionally patient and adept at waiting out the result of all of her carefully orchestrated plans.

She does wonder, though, if the banker was a step too far after dancing with the surgeon and flirting with the mayor, but she’ll just have to endure the consequences.

And the very idea nearly makes her grin, but she’s not as recklessly impulsive as to do so. Instead she follows his lead; folding her hands in her lap and remaining passive and silent.

He is so calm when thanking their driver, and seeing them both into the dead quiet of their home, that she is wrongly compelled to wonder if he’s forgotten that delicious promise.

But her second of doubt is swiftly extinguished when he lunges at her the moment the doors are closed, his leather gloved hands pinning her arms to the beautifully hand-painted walls of the hall, and the noise her bones make as she slams against it breaks the heated silence with a dense thud. It hurts, a sudden jolt of her person, and moisture floods her underwear. 

“Anything to say?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” she whimpers, all attempts at pretence dying at the mercy of his hands, which are climbing up her neck to hold her face.

“All those men,” he asks slowly, knowing precisely what to say and which tone of voice to say it in. “Is that what you want?”

She remains defiantly silent as he trails his hand over her jawline, the soft caress of the leather robbing her of any witty rejoinder anyway. His fingers trail down to the neckline of her dress, unnervingly gentle as he follows the shape of it with his index finger.

She watches him intently, listening closely to their heaving breaths, and all the heavy desperation of his restraint makes her feel weak with want.

“All those men looking at you…” he lifts his face, and his eyes are black with rage. “And you _desire_ that.”

He isn’t telling her something they don’t both already know or haven’t already discussed at length, and that they haven’t, on occasion even, laughed about.

But right now he doesn’t want to laugh, and nor does she.

Right now she wants him to fuck her until she can’t form a thought, until she’s weak with the very power of him and what he does to her. She longs to incite envy in him, to taste the fury he feels at the very prospect of her cuckolding him. She wants him to possess her in a way which horrifies her into a particular type of ecstasy. 

And she wants him to talk like this, to tell her how it drives him wild with jealousy and abandon, to make her wanton with every lascivious accusation he pours down on her. She wants him to use every crude word he’s ever collected, spat, coloured with that perfectly lilting accent.  

“You want more than that,” he palms her breast roughly, and her nipples tighten, and she breathes out a moan. “You want them to do more than look, don’t you?”

He grips her arms again, and spins her, sliding his hands over her shoulders and flattening her palms under his own against the wall. He forces his knee between her legs, and in spite of her tight dress he manages to widen them substantially, tilting her forward so her cheek is pressed against the wall, palms splayed on either side of her face. The position forces her rear into his groin, and he presses himself into her so she knows exactly how his body is reacting too. It makes her moan, makes her tongue dart out to polish her lips.

“I’m going to strip you, here,” he murmurs in her ear, and she hears his own coat fall to the floor and turns her head to see it slide to the side as he kicks it away casually. “And see every inch you want those men to see.”

He begins unbuttoning the tiny buttons which trail down her spine, and she feels each one popping open like a needle against her skin. He pulls it down from her shoulders and away from her arms and hands, but leaves it around her waist.

His gloved hands draw patterns across the shuddering skin of her back, softly and rhythmically.

“Would you let them touch you like this?” A hand comes up over her rib, onto her bare breast, and squeezes so hard she curls away from his touch. She should have worn more underwear, she thinks for a moment, but it does add a lovely dimension to the narrative he’s making, so it worked in her favour. 

“Of course, you would let them touch you,” he pinches and rolls her nipple, hard and quick. 

She is wordless, a moan of affirmation her only response.

His hands leave her, and he caresses the skin of her back with his mouth, tongue trailing a line of shivers up her spine, his tongue curling into her ear.

“Have them taste you like this?”

She nods.

Her answer makes him growl, and he pushes her hard and flush against the wall, and then himself against her so she can feel every inch of his cock against the small of her back.

“Have them fuck you like I plan to?”

She is not typically a fan of vulgarity – in fact she finds it unnecessary in most circumstances. Under this circumstance, however, he can say anything to her, about her, for her. She’s not yet met a boundary in this regard that she hasn’t wanted him to careen through, and she’ll do nothing but bristle with desperation as he calls her all manner of dreadfully derogatory things. Did she think she’d enjoy this as a girl? Absolutely not. But she always has loved being surprised, even if it’s by herself. 

Occasionally, she even says something back - though loquaciousness is much more his style than her own.

He pulls her dress down over her legs, following it to kneel behind her and let her step out of it. It joins his coat as he shoves it aside. She feels his breath on the back of her thighs. She instinctively moves to close her legs to stand more comfortably, but his hand comes up to swiftly grab a handful of flesh to stop her, and then he flattens his palm and parts them again, and her heels and the angle make her lean against the wall to prevent herself from falling. The position pushes her pelvis out obscenely and leaves her entirely vulnerable to his hands and mouth and words. 

“I can smell how wet you are.”

He hooks his leather-clad fingers into the waistband of her silk panties and begins dragging them down her legs. 

“But I should probably still check.”

She smiles for a moment, almost overcome with the urge to laugh, but that would ruin the moment.

At any rate, he’s getting off on this just as much as she is, and it would be incredibly unfair to ruin that for him after all of the effort he’s exercised here. 

Still on his knees, he slides his hands round to grab her hips and pull her backwards so she is braced against the wall entirely, arms bearing her weight and her legs spread so widely that for a moment she considers being embarrassed, but that would be ironic given she’s been in far more compromising positions than this in front of him. And the vulnerability of it all sends white-hot shards of desperation coursing through her. 

Power play has always been one of her most cherished past times and being lashed by every filthy word from his tongue is just as cathartic as letting him whip her until she weeps. In fact, she thinks she enjoys it a little more. 

But only a little. 

“You should probably stay in the position that you are most comfortable in, wouldn’t you say? It seems to be your habit; legs spread.” He jibes, making a point of pushing her thighs uncomfortably apart, and she feels a flush rising over her own collarbones. 

Still, she doesn’t want to make it too simple for him. 

“Can’t you just make love to me?”

He laughs darkly, inches away from her aching centre, and she feels it acutely. 

“Why would I want to make love to a woman who wants to be fucked?”

Fair point, she thinks, and he begins trailing his fingers along her flesh, slick and aching for him already. The leather adds a dimension she can’t quite give name to, because it’s so wickedly erotic that she’s not sure she has the words. 

“That says more about me than it does about you,” she gasps, curling on to her tiptoes when his tongue delivers a deliciously long lick and then centres on her clitoris. 

He swirls it deliberately, holding her hips firm in place, making it impossible to move, and she wants to squirm out of his touch. He licks and sucks and bites unforgivingly and she almost forgets that she’s not the one who’s in control tonight.

He stops, just as she’s pushing herself wantonly into his face. Before withdrawing entirely, he nips the flesh of her rear with his teeth. She almost whines but saves herself the humiliation.

“ I don’t know so much,” he answers. “I’m not the one who’s almost coming with the thought of fucking someone who is not my husband.”

“We all have our weaknesses,” she mutters, and she feels him stand before he spins her round again, so they are face to face. 

“It’s a mercy then that you are mine,” he says softly, taking her hand in his own and cupping it around the solid bulge in his pants. She takes that as permission to unzip them, and her fingers delve into his boxers and close around his erect cock.

She watches his face, suppressing a smile as his eyes widen and darken impossibly while she fondles him unashamedly. 

He closes his hand around her own, over the layers of material.

“Bedroom,” he orders, motioning her to walk in front of him.

She stalls for a moment, something of ignominy stopping her, but then he pats her rear gently and propels her forward.

“Don’t feign indignity,” he leans into her ear. “It doesn’t become you.”

She begins walking slowly, heels making her hips sway anyway, but exaggerating the effect they create for impact. She considers their clothing, briefly, but knows he will deal with it before poor Lurch has to.

“You’re an exhibitionist,” he says conversationally behind her, as she reaches the middle of the stairs. “You know how beautiful you are, but it’s an arrogance you have too.”

She looks over her shoulder, to find him leaning on the bannister casually, as if he’s observing a mildly amusing sideshow.

“Don’t pretend it doesn’t have you achingly hard,” she whispers, and his laugh rings through the vaulting halls. “Or that your pride isn’t bolstered when other men salivate over me. And they do salivate.”

His lips twitch in an almost-smile, but then the lines of his face harden.

“Keep walking. I am not finished putting you on display,” he says, beginning to mount the stairs as she turns back around and begins the slow retreat to their rooms.

She’s hardly concerned with propriety- the children are abed, and there’s something deliciously erotic about the frigid air on her bare skin and the way the torchlight makes her monstrous shadow dance on the walls.

And the exhibition of it all; his footsteps as they follow behind her, the silent promise of all the things she knows he wants to do to her, the absolute depravity of the humiliation she is seeking.

It has her practically giddy with anticipation.

“Stop,” he mutters, just at the entrance to their wing of the house. “Turn around Tish.”

She does as she is asked.

“Any other positions you’re inclined to?” He asks, the implication clear.

“I’ve never been one for kneeling,” she answers, coquettish in the extreme.

“Well there’s always time to form new habits,” he answers, pushing down on her shoulder with one hand while the other releases his cock from his pants. “Touch yourself too. No rest for the wicked.”

She uses his thighs to leverage herself onto her knees, and dutifully – as if it’s a chore – she parts her knees and slides her hand between her legs, circling her own clitoris with as well practiced a finger as her husband. She wraps her unoccupied hand around his jutting cock and takes him in her mouth as he carelessly removes his gloves and then winds his hands in her hair.

She wonders, fleetingly, if this is when she has the most power; on her knees, with him literally between her teeth. The very idea is intoxicating, and she looks up to see his head flung back, the veins in his neck pulsing over the blinding white collar of his shirt as he grunts ferally and tightens his grip on her hair.

He thrusts into her mouth, an unusual moment of unmeasured brutality, and it almost tips her over the edge.  Her abdomen tightens, her muscles clench.

She knows, though, that he will not want to spend himself so quickly and it comes as no surprise when he withdraws from her mouth, her hair still wound tightly in his fists.

“Enough,” he commands. “There’s something sluttish about a woman making herself come.”

“You don’t typically complain,” she says, a sweet edge to her frustration, which is heightened by the contempt he’s cultivating so well for her.

It isn’t in his nature at all to be so deprecatory, so all the effort he is exerting is something of a gift to her. She knows that he is absolutely willing to do anything in his power to bring her satisfaction, and that alone makes her feel a love she didn’t realise she was capable of.

“Well maybe I am tired of obliging your whims,” he pulls her up by the hair he still holds, and she is inches away from his face. “And if my wife insists on offering everything she has – and might I say what she has is in abundance – to every man she meets, I think I have to take her in hand.”

He kisses her violently then, so hard it robs her of any response she intended to make.

He begins walking, and for the sake of a substantial portion of her hair – she’s never above vanity – she walks with him.

“I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk,” he promises, and she nearly buckles as her knees weaken. “And then that negates any risk of you opening those lovely legs for anyone else.”

 _Not that she ever would_ passes wordlessly between them, the need to voice it entirely unnecessary, as they look at each other for a moment.

“Well its only appropriate for you to take what is yours,” she agrees. “But if you aren’t going to use that – “ she looks pointedly at his furiously hard cock, “soon, I may get bored.”

“Oh sweetheart,” he says, deliberately using a name he knows she finds loathsome, “that will never happen. You can act the coquette all you want. You can even fantasise about it. But you’ll never tire of me, and of what I can do with this.”

“You think very highly of yourself,” she quips, and he tugs so hard on her hair that she whines, and the move exposes the column of her neck to his mouth. 

He takes no time in stopping just short of their bedroom door and devouring the wildly sensitive skin there. Her own hands scratch for the brass door handle, hoping that a change of setting will finally deliver what she’s craving.

Her own wetness is sliding across her thighs, and his litany of filth has left her aching with arousal.

“Patience,” he counsels in her ear, his lips nipping at her earlobe. “There’s no one – believe me, despite what you may think – who wants to be buried in that cunt more than me. But even I can be patient.”

The obscenity tightens every muscle in her person, wringing every drop of patience from her swiftly depleting supply and making her whimper with need.

She can feel his smile as he hauls her against his body and into their bedroom, where the glow from the fire softens the ferocity of their interactions.

He bends her torso over the side of their monstrous bed, and her hand slides out to grip the closest of the four posters as he plunges into her from behind, his cock so hard that for a moment she tenses against the feel of him and as quickly as she does her body adjusts. She pushes up on her feet to create more leverage and to draw him impossibly closer as he thrusts into her, the fingers of one hand firm, so much so  she can imagine the bruises forming, in the curve of her hip, while the other on her clit touches her so expertly that she silently thanks all of the dark forces at work for his skilled hands. He fucks her for a while, slow and measured and brutal in his methodical pursuit and she cries her frustration into the silk sheets and the familiar bedroom. 

“It isn’t them, really, the thought of them taking you, is it? You’re exceptionally selective, you always have been. Not one of those men was to your taste. It isn’t the thought of their clumsy hands or their dismally long refractory periods that makes your nipples tighten and your thighs clench, is it?” He asks, as soon as he feels her impending climax, the rhythm of his words congruent with his slow, deep thrusts.

“No,” she bites out, difficult to do when he is making unhesitating ease of blowing her control to absolute smithereens. Her fingers are gripping the post so hard she worries she might shatter it through sheer force.

“No,” he reiterates, hand leaving her hip and curling around hers on the post. “No it’s the jealousy, isn’t it? the envy it forges in me. The way it makes me want to destroy them for coveting you like that. For wanting to fuck what is mine, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she all but screams as she topples over the edge into an oblivion that feels not unlike a welcome, delicious death. Every nerve in her body catches fire, curling her toes and setting her blood alight. “Oh, god, yes!”

He follows her, and his release is accompanied by a wild howl and the sharp agony of his teeth biting into her shoulder as he comes hard and sudden.

Her legs collapse under her, and he follows, still buried within her, supporting his weight on his elbows as she lowers herself to the satin sheets of their bed.

He kisses the burning flesh of the bite he so recently inflicted, soothing the burn with his tongue for a moment before humming a little laugh against her skin. After a few minutes he slips out of her and then he shifts them, so that he’s no longer lying on top of her, and he pulls her further onto the bed, so that they can lie more comfortably.

She stretches out, cat like, and turns to look at him.

“Some wine to wash my mouth out,” he smiles, pulling her nearer him.

He reaches for the cord to ring for wine, but she stops his hand mid-air.

“Leave it for a moment my love,” she whispers.  “I suspect we’ll need more than just wine to wash our mouths out.”

They are silent for a while, before she finds the energy to say what she has been trying to for the entire evening. 

“Envy looks good on you,” she rolls to lie across his chest, and toys with the buttons of his still-intact shirt. 

“It seems to bring out your lesser-known demons,” he grins, almost shy, needing this interaction much more than any which have preceded it.

She is more than happy to oblige.

“Oh but you love playing with them, do you not?” She asks, looking into his face.

He laughs, “As long as I’m the only one who ever does.”

She smiles softly, and kisses his chin, “Oh, never doubt it. I simply wouldn’t have the energy to play with anyone but you.”

“Anything else?” He asks wryly.

“Lack of energy,” she kisses his lips, pretends to search for another reason, “and my undying love and my…fidelity.”

“Good to know.” 

 

 


End file.
